


I've Got You Now

by TheDemonInside



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Dutch is a good dad, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scared Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDemonInside/pseuds/TheDemonInside
Summary: The plan is simple: walk in, hand over the information and then leave. Nobody needs to know, nobody needs to worry, but the storm is brewing, standing at Arthur's back and he's running out of time to turn tail and run.OrArthur is hurt. Afraid of the storm and remembering the abuse of Lyle. Dutch helps him through it.Please read the warnings in the tags.Other than that just enjoy the fic I guess
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, but like - Relationship, mostly platonic - Relationship, only if you squint
Comments: 1
Kudos: 52





	I've Got You Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so this is my first rdr fic I'm posting but if this goes down well I might share more :) I really just like torturing our poor boys if I'm honest. I'm not sure I'm happy with the ending but let me know what you think if you get to it I guess?

It is not dreadfully late but the sky is already dark. Masses upon masses of heavy gray clouds roll in and chase the sky of color. They settle on the horizon, looming upon them all, choking the oxygen out of the air. The humidity makes his lungs rasp pitifully and Arthur knows that a storm is fast approaching- though he plans to be far, far away from here when it breaks.

For now though, he knows he must report back to Dutch. A loyal hound bringing back the downed prey to his master, dripping drool and wagging tail of appeasement, desperate for the praise the master gives. He realizes all too well the rugged mutt he has become- on the hunt day after day if only for one word, for one gentle hand to encourage him do it all over again the next time the sun peaks its rays over the horizon, often times even when all the world is still dark and dreadful and dangerous. And he knows he will; he has, every past day of his life, he would happily drop dead at Dutch’s heels if he asked him to, he would throw himself into the pits of hell and never look back- he would deliver this information even with the imposing storm breathing down his neck. He would do what he was told as he was told, his master, of course, forever deserving of his loyalty, his blind faith and forgiveness. Dutch saved him after all, he saved the lot of them, and the least they can do is give some faith back for doing so.

This makes up the basis of Arthurs life: follow the command, ask no questions, beg no answers, say nothing, work hard, pledge his life and his soul to the one who saved him, raised him, and made him who he is. Whatever Dutch says- it goes, it’s the truth, a fact, it’s just what is and there’s no point in wasting good time working to question that. His opinions, and anyone’s opinions really- other than that slimy bastard who nobody _but_ Dutch could stand- don’t matter, not your doubts, or your worries, not your pains and grievances. There is only purpose, to serve and obey and live this free life he preaches. So when he is scared, when he falters and lets doubt linger, he just reminds himself that they don’t matter- _he_ doesn’t matter, only Dutch’s command. He must have faith.

Not that that will help him much. Not that it ever has. Not like when the rain pours and the wind howls and he’s left shaking in his boots, in the emptiness and the dark and the cold, that he will be any less alone. ‘It doesn’t matter’, he tells himself, ‘he doesn’t matter’. There is no help he can receive anyway, none he would accept, none he will be offered. It doesn’t matter. It’s not possible. Simply not possible to protect someone from something so out of their control- out of anyone’s control. Not possible. Doesn’t matter.

He’ll grin and bear it. Get these reports handed over and move on; that much he can do and then he’ll be safe- safer than here. He’ll come up with some excuse for his speedy departure later. Slip some money into the pot and maybe no questions will be asked, progress is progress after all and there is a lot of slack to pick up. He scowls thinking just how much of that is dropped by a certain rotten rat that Dutch pocketed from off the bar. A greasy, blasted, cryptic, no-good degenerate, shitbag that had wormed his way into their leaders pocket and lay sharp claws of poison into his mind. Arthur almost snarls at the thought of the twisted grin and sadistic blue eyes- it made him want to gouge his own out with a knife- not that he would do that if he wanted to keep his place at his master’s side.

The trail grows marshy under his horse’s feet and he slips from the saddle leading the gentle mare the rest of the way. He has one hand clutching the reigns in an iron grip, rubbing her neck for comfort, the other fiddles with the clasp on his satchel, feeling as if he had packed it with bricks rather than the few priceless papers that were in there. He stays standing by the hitching posts for a small while, just breathing and running his hand through the horses mane. Finally he sighs, throwing her reigns over the post and whispering a last praise to her as he strides meaningfully to find Dutch. He is on a mission, one singular simple mission: get in, get out. Easy. He just wishes he could breathe properly, not feeling strangled by the thick and soupy air, as if he were drowning whilst standing completely unsubmerged. Well, except for his feet being sunken into the delights of swampy grounds that surrounded the house. He supposes he should be thankful they found Shady Belle- it has proved safe so far of course. But that won’t keep him tied here, he remembers the plan- in and out.

He doesn’t really experience much of what happens next. Remembers maybe, seeing Dutch standing by the doors of the barley standing house, a cigar held lazily between two fingers, smoke drifting upwards towards the laden sky, as he watches Arthur approach. He must have greeted him when they met, some grand and extravagant welcome back you’d expect from the man that calls himself their father, and then the quieter hushed question of ‘did you get them?’. Then, logically, he must have pulled out the papers and handed them over, Dutch scanning them with a scrutinizing gaze a small smile of contentment tugging at the corner of his lips before he turned back around. He must’ve folded the papers and put them in one of his pockets because Arthur can not see them now. His eyes slip back to the horizon, the steadily darkening gray almost black. He bites his lip, wonders if now is an okay time to leave. But Dutch’s hand is coming down to meet his shoulder, and he knows he will be held in place, he shuffles nervously as his eyes follow the sky.

Maybe Dutch saw it as embarrassment because he huffs an amused breath as he clasps Arthurs shoulder, sharp stare trying to find where the man’s thoughts lie. Just then a flash of light streaks across the sky, Arthur eyes widen and he flinches so violently that Dutch snatches his hand back in fear that he had hurt him. He goes to ask if he was injured during the job but is interrupted by a loud rumble of thunder. His son previously turned towards wherever the light had come from, steps back unconsciously so that Dutch has to raise his hands to stop him being run into. They rest on Arthurs shoulders for a moment before his brown gaze softens at the trembling underneath his palms, how long has he been missing this? And to say he was supposed to protect him.

“Arthur?” He asks gently.

His boy turns his head a little in response and one look into those gleaming blue eyes tells Dutch all he needs to know. He is scared and vulnerable and so very much like the quivering runt of a boy they had taken from the streets all those years ago, shaking and desperate to please after spending so long under his blood fathers unforgiving hand. Not for the first time Dutch is very glad that the man is dead and long turned to dust 6 foot under. He wonders briefly if Lyle was the reason for his son’s fears, the though alone making him want to shred the long dead man, when one look at a tense frame and wild eyes was enough for his heart to feel wrenched out his chest.

“Arthur?” He says again, keeping his voice low and calm.

He is becoming aware of a few curious gazes being cast their way and wishes to spare his son’s pride. Cautiously he reaches for Arthur’s arm when he receives no response, or any indication at all that he has heard him. Another flash lights his face with a ghostly pallor, it frames his trembling form and causes his breath to hitch. Dutch almost grabs him into a tight embrace there and then, hating so much to see his dear boy in pain. Instead he just grips his bicep firmly and guides him into the house. Arthur follows blindly, trusting and all too pliant, it makes Dutch’s own breath catch when he realizes how much of that little boy resided in the action, desperate to be of use, jumping to his and Hosea’s requests for fear of some sort of rebuke, for fear of being left behind. His breathe sticks in his throat and he has to force himself to breathe around it as they climb the stairs, focus entirely on Arthur, on the present, on helping him as he had forgone doing all too often.

The sound of the thunder arrives as they’re on the last few steps to the top of the stairs and Dutch almost lets out a low whine of anguish when his son flinches hard and the trembling becomes so much stronger. He’s practically carrying the man’s weight by the time they’re entering his room, Arthur’s legs shaking too much to hold him up, breathing frantic as his eyes flicker about the space, trying to work out what is going on. It made Dutch’s chest ache as he leads him round to the far side of the bed and sits him gently on it. He stood in front of his precious boy, reminded very much of a startled animal, with too quick, ragged gasps, eyes wide, pupils blown and panicked. He finds himself raising his hands as if attempting to calm a spooked horse, lowering himself to his knees and looking Arthur in crystal blue eyes. They were glazed and his mind seemed far away but he starts to talk to him anyway.

“Easy now Arthur,” he murmurs, “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe. You don’t need to be afraid.”

Gingerly he reached for Arthurs hands, holding them, rubbing circles onto their backs with his thumbs. The storm is quieter in here, not completely silenced, but dull enough that without too much effort it can be ignored. It rages furiously against the walls, but nothing breaks through. So he’s patient, and he waits with Arthur, whispering encouragement and gripping his hands. ‘Breathe’ he will say, or ‘come back to me, that’s it’, and eventually ocean blue shows a spark of recognition. They stare into his lap for a while, at where Dutch holds his hands tightly, before the older man draws them back apologetically, yet when he went to apologize the words were stolen from his mouth.

“Sorry”

Dutch looks up at his son. The downcast gaze, the hunched shoulders. He brings up a hand and lifts the man’s chin, frowning at the telltale glass of unshed tears. It seems to set something off in Arthur though. He’s quickly pulling back, eyes wide, whispering frantic apologies.

“I’ll do better. It won’t happen again, I promise,” he hears between the rambling and Dutch feels his heart break, almost letting out a sob at the raw sorrow and resignation in his voice.

“Arthur,” he chokes out, “Arthur, stop,” And Arthur stops, snapping his jaw shut and staring, waiting for Dutch to tell him what to do, to scold him or anything.

“Arthur,” Dutch sighs again. Reaching to cradle his ashen face in his hands, “Arthur, son. Don’t apologize. I will never rebuke you for your fears dear boy. You are safe with me, I’ve got you my boy. I’ve got you, always have, always will” he pauses, “you know that don’t you?”

When he receives no reply Dutch does sob, moving to sit on the bed beside Arthur and grasp him into a tight hug. His chin resting on golden hair, eyes closed, arms wrapped unrelenting about his boy. His dear broken boy. He lets the tears fall and speaks, half to himself, half to unmoving man below him.

“Arthur _I_ am sorry. I have not been looking out for you as I should have. I have pushed you away and I have hurt you, I can never forgive myself for what I have done to you. My boy- you should never feel you have to earn my endearment, oh son, if only I could put in words all you mean to me. You are so much more than a son to me Arthur. Please, I will fix this I promise”

There goes a moment when nothing is said, and then slowly, as if he were expecting to be stopped and punished any moment, Arthur wraps his arms about his back and buries his face in his neck. Dutch sighs softly in contentment, drawing the lad that bit closer. He burrows his nose into sandy hair and just revels in the scent and the comfort of Arthur. The campfire and gunpowder and warmth of a being so alive. The body pressed against his and the reasuring breathe dusting against his neck.

“You mean that Dutch,” A small voice asks after a while.

“Always Arthur,” Comes his reply with no hesitation.

“How?” He asks, pulling a little away to look Dutch in the eye.

“Any way I can,” Dutch replies softly.

Content Arthur forms a small smile and leans forward to rest his head against Dutch’s chest. His eyes remain open, staring at the wall unblinking. Outside the storm still wreaks havoc with a vengeance, an uncontainable force of rage and destruction. Dutch finds himself unconsciously pulling Arthur closer as the room is lit in bright white, throwing huge shadows across the floor, quickly receding as the roll of thunder comes in. Arthur’s eyes are now squeezed shut and Dutch finds a question still nagging at him.

“Arthur?” he approaches carefully. He gets a quiet hum as cue to go on. “Why does the storm scare you so?”

Dutch almost regrets asking the question as his son stiffens in his grip, but then the man sighs and blue orbs open again.

“I was only a boy,” Arthur starts and Dutch gets the sick feeling that he knows where this is going, “I was only a boy. Small and stupid and gullible and he threw me out. Said after I came back empty handed I should go back out despite the storm. Told me. Told me it would kill me. That if I didn’t run fast enough then the lightning would strike me and I would be dead. Told me I’d be safe if he let me in but he’d only let me in if I found him something good. So of course, I ran. I ran, and my lungs were burning Dutch, everything was hurting; he had beat me upon my return and then he’d kicked me out. And God, it was so loud and cold, and everything was dark and I couldn’t run anymore and I was so scared. I was certain I was gonna die, alone and cold and scared and struck dead by lightning, cowering in a corner of some dingy alley cuz I couldn’t even run anymore.”

Arthur had started speaking faster, more uncertain, and more panicky towards the end and now he was left gasping pitifully small gasps again, pressing into Dutch’s chest as a programmed response from each time he had woken from a nightmare as a child. Looking at him now, he can see the boy they found as they found him, curled up on the dirty floor of some backstreet in a dingy little forgotten town, shaking and trying unsuccessfully to drag air into his lungs. He remembered it well, clothes drenched, clinging to an emaciated imitation of a human being. Blue eyes had been darting left and right, wide with fear as lightening struck overhead, he remembers seeing his face in that light and having his heart ripped in two. Seeing the fear and pain on gaunt cheeks and sallow eyes, the sickly hue of the skin, that small amount of it which hadn’t been colored black and blue anyway. Right then and there he had made a vow to protect this boy and raise him right, raise him proper, raise him loved. Hosea had been a ways back, looking on in concern as Dutch approached a fearful young boy, wrapped him under one arm and lead him to safety. Brought him family and raised him _right._

He says the same words to Arthur now as he had then, whispers then into his hair, clutches him close and promises him that he will be there. He raises a hand and strokes it through matted strands of golden hair, still whispering praise as he holds his son close and his breathing becomes calmer. He continues this gesture of affection even when he feels a familiar calculating gaze on him and looks down into Arthurs now much brighter and steadier gaze. He stares up at Dutch a while longer, a warmth enveloping the two of them, the storm outside all of forgotten as they took comfort in holding each other, in being family again.. Arthur smiled to, cracked lips turning up as he remembered how the night had ended, who had picked him up when he fell and given him a true father, his smile becoming bigger, reaching his eyes as his tongue formed words:

“And then you found me”

Brown eyes gaze gently down at the younger man, his grown boy, all grown up and filled out and become a hard headed gun man but not without losing his gentle humanity, his adoration and care for that about him and Dutch smiled knowing he would never be able to for-go that vow. He’d meant every word he’d said that night and found himself trying to express all of his thoughts of trust and pride and love, letting them pour into his voice as he spoke of what proved to be the best thing to have happened to him in this life:

“And then I found you”

**Author's Note:**

> So thanks for reading :))) I hope you liked this and please let me know if you would like to see more of my works :))


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